


Two Funerals

by likethenight



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:09:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2832680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likethenight/pseuds/likethenight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two funerals marked the day after the Battle of Badon Hill, two among hundreds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Funerals

Gawain could not quite find the words, in later years, to describe those first few days after the defeat of the Saxons, after the surviving invaders had been driven howling back to the coast, back to their ships and their own country. It all seemed too big to put into words, somehow, too enormous to pin down and hem in with sentences and sentiment. On the one hand there was a gaping, aching void, the absence of his lost friends and the ending of his forced servitude, and on the other there was something else, something strange, something entirely new.

Two more funerals marked the day after the battle, two among the hundreds of dead; most were laid out in mass graves, wept over by the people of the fort and the forests, or in the case of the Saxons, mourned not at all. But two in particular were given funerals in the small graveyard belonging to the fortress, small, quiet funerals with only a handful in attendance. Arthur the commander, Guinevere the Woads' princess, the boy Lucan, Bors, Galahad and Gawain, as the Sarmatian knights buried two more of their own.

They put Tristan in the ground first, the scout's wandering spirit finally stilled, anchored at last to the country he had defended though it had never been his own. They lowered his shrouded body into the grave and shovelled the earth over him, and as was his habit at the funerals of his soldiers, Arthur said a few words, his voice taut with suppressed emotion but controlled almost fiercely, for he knew what was to come. He spoke of Tristan's bravery and his skill, but they all knew that mere words could not do justice to the man Tristan had been. Bors was silent for once; he had been uncharacteristically subdued since the smoke had cleared from the battlefield, and though he would not talk about it, Gawain knew that he mourned Dagonet more than he would ever admit. The two had been inseparable since childhood, and if it felt wrong to Gawain to see Bors without his gentle giant of a shadow, he knew it must feel a thousand times worse to Bors himself.

Gawain murmured a quiet, private benediction, a plea to the Horse Mother to take her son's spirit home, and he heard Galahad's soft voice echoing his words, for in this as in all things they stood together. They all paused for a long moment at the graveside, and as they turned away to let the gravediggers fill the earth in Gawain thought he heard the cry of a hawk, far overhead, wheeling and screaming in the sky above them.

Arthur led the way to the second grave, although strictly speaking it was a pyre; a pit filled with brushwood and kindling, and upon it laid a second shrouded body. Torches burned at the four corners of the pyre, their bases thrust into the ground for now, and the small funeral party took up their places between them as Arthur stood at the head of the pyre, Guinevere standing defiantly by his side. For a long moment they were silent, the three remaining knights knowing only too well how much this last duty was costing their commander. None of them quite wanted to break the silence, and a glance at Arthur told Gawain that he was struggling to speak and to maintain his composure, staring into the middle distance and steeling himself as if for battle, and avoiding at all costs allowing his gaze to drop to the shrouded figure on the pyre.

Eventually Arthur appeared to gain a strong enough grip on his emotions, and he spoke as he had for Tristan, spoke of Lancelot's bravery, his fire and his determination, and his wish not to be buried but to be burned, and for his ashes to be scattered to a strong east wind. Arthur's voice was steady but to those who knew him it was stretched tight with pain and guilt, and when he fell silent Gawain knew that he had left unsaid everything he truly wanted to say.

Gawain murmured his benediction again, echoed once more by Galahad, and then the three knights and their commander stepped to the four corners of the pyre, each one taking a torch and setting it to the brushwood, keeping it there as the flames took hold. Arthur was staring fixedly into the fire as it licked up the kindling and flickered at the edges of the shroud, with the air of a man who was making himself look, making himself watch something he had hoped and prayed never to have to see.

Once the fire was burning well, the four of them stood back, thrusting the torches back into the ground, and they stood at the corners, head bowed, as the flames took the earthly remains of their friend, the smoke perhaps carrying his spirit to the sky as the wind would carry his ashes when the fire had done its work.

When the fire had burned low, they began to leave the graveyard in ones and twos, slowly making their way away by some unspoken consent. Bors and Lucan went first, and after them Gawain and Galahad turned to go, making their customary detour to the graves of Gawain's three younger brothers as they did after every funeral and every other occasion that they found themselves in the graveyard. Arthur and Guinevere stayed behind at the pyre, and when Gawain glanced back the Woads' princess was speaking to Arthur in a low, intent voice, her hand on his shoulder; she was well out of earshot, but Gawain thought he could guess what she was saying, some stirring encouragement that was completely out of place. The man had just buried his lover of nearly fifteen years; no matter how determined she was that he should be the leader her people needed, she should have the courtesy to allow him this moment to grieve.

Gawain turned away, putting her and her schemes from his mind as he and Galahad made their way down the slope to the corner of the graveyard where his brothers were buried, their three swords still standing proud at the heads of their graves. They were shaded by trees and on summer days it was almost a pleasant spot, but on this day the air was cold and damp, the grass wet with rain, and Gawain stayed on his feet, though often he would sit in the grass at the foot of the middle grave, that of his brother Gareth. 

They stood in silence for a while, but eventually Galahad spoke, his voice rougher and scratchier than usual.

"I can't quite believe they're gone," he said. "We've lost so many, but it had been so long. I thought we were all going to get out of this alive, all six of us. And now look at us. Three left, out of everyone. Three."

"I know," said Gawain. "And for it to be after the end of our service, when we should have been free to go, that's a bitter draught indeed."

"We _were_ free to go," Galahad pointed out.

"I know that too. We were free to go and we chose to stay, and for that at least I'm glad. Tristan and Lancelot had the chance to choose their fates; that was a chance none of the rest of our brothers did. Not Dagonet, and not these three boys. Tristan and Lancelot died for Arthur; the rest of them died for Rome."

"True. And I can't help thinking," said Galahad, glancing back up the hill towards Arthur and Guinevere, "that Lancelot picked a bloody good time to play the hero. He knew what was going on, he knew that minx of a Woad had her claws into Arthur. I don't think he'd have lasted long here."

"You might be right. Guinevere's brave new world is not one that I could see Lancelot being happy to inhabit." Gawain shook his head; he had a strong suspicion that Lancelot had seen the way the wind was blowing and chosen to sacrifice himself for the greater good, and for Arthur's happiness. Perhaps he hadn't realised that without him, Arthur's happiness was always going to be tainted with grief, loss and guilt.

"And what about us?" Galahad asked. "Does that world hold a place for us, do you think?"

"I don't know. Do you want it to?"

"I don't know either. Up until yesterday I wanted to go home more than almost anything. But now…I don't know."

"Now it feels as though the gods have something else in store for us?" Gawain ventured. "As if perhaps the plains do not hold a place for us any more."

"You feel it too?" Galahad sounded for a moment almost like the boy he had not been for over a decade, hesitant and unsure, looking for reassurance, and as always Gawain gave it.

"I believe I do. It seems to me that we still have work to do here, and it's work of our own choosing, not of Rome's. We are still the masters of our fate, but it seems to me that the gods are nudging us in this direction, not eastwards towards the plains."

"Maybe they are," Galahad said, sounding a little more at ease. "Maybe Arthur still has need of us."

"I think he most certainly does," said Gawain. "Apart from anything else, we can't very well leave him in the clutches of that woman. He'll need a little bit of backup."

Galahad chuckled, opening his mouth to reply, but they both fell silent as they became aware of a small figure stealing back into the graveyard, making for Dagonet's grave. It was clear that it was Lucan, but the knights could not at first make out what he was trying to do. They moved a little closer, quietly, not wanting to disturb the boy, and after a few moments it became clear that he was trying to pull Dagonet's sword from the ground. 

Gawain and Galahad exchanged bewildered glances, unsure what to do, but then they realised that Arthur was heading towards the grave, talking to the boy, and his words drifted over to them on the breeze that was still carrying skywards the smoke from Lancelot's pyre. Arthur was reassuring the boy, giving him a promise that when he was a man grown he would have the strength to return and take the sword. They left the cemetery together, and Gawain and Galahad exchanged looks again, both of them wondering if what they had just witnessed was the beginning of a new life for all of them. 

Only time would tell. But as they left the graveyard themselves, Gawain bidding a silent farewell to his brothers, they both knew that they were taking the first steps into an unknown future, one in which Arthur, not Rome, would be the law they would follow, and their fate would be of their own choosing. Their servitude was over, and though they had lost almost all of their number, they were free men at long last.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is followed by another, _[A Wake for the Dead, An Eye to the Future](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6077748)_.


End file.
